


Sael

by ShannaraIsles



Series: Ena'Vun: The Dawn Will Come [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, My First Fanfic, Pre-Relationship, this is scary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9964007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannaraIsles/pseuds/ShannaraIsles
Summary: In which Cullen Rutherford reflects on first impressions and why he should never trust his own.





	

Commander Cullen Rutherford knew not to trust first impressions. His own were often wrong to the point of foolishness.

 

Take his first impression of Lyna Mahariel, for example. Though he knew much of that first impression was coloured by his own torments, for until that moment of meeting he had been tortured by demons unceasingly for days, still he had come away from that meeting with a less than glowing assessment of her character. All he had seen was a Dalish elf, putting herself between him and the mages he was so certain deserved to die for the protection of all. He hadn't even acknowledged her status as a Grey Warden. Nor had he stopped to consider that she had greater problems to tackle than the destruction of a Circle Tower. He had watched her walk away, and he had _hated_ her for her compassion toward the mages. How wrong he had been.

 

Months later, she had faced down the Archdemon in the heart of Denerim itself, standing up fiercely in defence not only of her own people, but of _all_ the people of Thedas, be they elf, human, dwarf, or mage. No one knew how she had survived. But he knew he had been wrong about her. It was not the last time he would be wrong about someone at the centre of events.

 

His first impression of the Champion of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke, had been no better. A refugee, Ferelden like himself, who had pulled herself and her family out of the gutter they had been thrown into when they reached the Free Marches almost single-handedly. Perhaps he would have admired her, had she not spent much of that first year protecting the mage in her midst - her sister, who had only come to the attention of the Templars when Hawke had been trapped in the Deep Roads. Even when that sister had been incarcerated in the Gallows, the home of the Circle of Magi in Kirkwall, he had watched Hawke with suspicion. Fuelled with rage after his treatment at the hands of abominations in Ferelden, he had seen only another interfering woman, who put the well-being of mages above the well-being of every other person in the city. Even when she saved the city from the Qunari and was proclaimed the Champion, he had refused to accept she had done it for anyone other than the mages.

 

Yet it was in those few years between her acclamation as Champion and the fall of the Gallows that he had begun to realise how destructive his unthinking hatred was. In watching Hawke, he found himself watching her sister, and in watching Bethany, he discovered a mage who had been trained outside the Circle and yet did not practice blood magic, or adhere to the heretical doctrine of most maleficar. In seeing the gentleness of the sister, he began to appreciate Hawke's point of view, turning a blind eye to some of her more outrageous behaviours, trusting that she was acting for the best. And then ... the destruction of the Chantry in Kirkwall. The day everything he thought he knew came crashing down upon his head.

 

Yes, a mage _was_ responsible for the catastrophic explosion that had destroyed the Chantry chapel and everyone within, including the Grand Cleric. But even he was taken aback when Knight-Commander Meredith seized upon that act as an excuse to invoke the Rite of Annulment. The commander he had trusted, the leader he looked to for guidance, showed her madness in that moment, refusing to listen to reason. She wanted _all_ mages dead, regardless of their innocence, and she was not prepared to wait for the proper permissions to do so. Cullen had listened as Hawke refused to allow it, had watched the Champion of Kirkwall execute her erstwhile companion for his terrible deed and proceed to fight her way through the city toward the Gallows, determined to protect as many mages as she could.

 

And he had found himself not fighting as hard as he should have done in obedience to his commander. He caught himself protecting those mages who did not succumb to blood magic for survival, and for the first time in a long time, he had felt the reassuring warmth in his blood that he had done the _right_ thing. That warmth had still been there when Hawke and her companions staggered out of the Gallows, wet with the blood of the First Enchanter who had turned on them in despair, and been challenged by Meredith in her madness. It was that warmth, that certainty that he was in the _right_ , that gave him the strength to stand _with_ the Champion of Kirkwall against the Knight-Commander, to turn his blade and the blades of his brother templars against the woman they had trusted and followed for too long, unaware of the red lyrium that was turning her toward insanity. In the aftermath, when he found himself in charge of the Gallows and turned his attention to protecting the mages rather than persecuting them, the Champion had slipped away, fearful that her presence in the city would bring down yet more templars upon them. She abandoned her home and the people she loved, to protect _all_ of them from what might be. Again, he had been wrong.

 

So, no, Commander Cullen Rutherford did not trust his own first impressions any longer. That realisation was timely, too. Though he had taken this position as Commander of the newly-reformed Inquisition's forces, he had little to occupy his time at first but the training of his small army. He had wished for a challenge, and oh, how he wished now he could take back that desire. That challenge had come in the form of yet more destruction, with the utter ruination of the Chantry, the leveling of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and the whole-sale murder of hundreds of the faithful. Not only that, but the Divine, leader of the Chantry herself, was killed in the explosion that flattened the mountaintop, along with the leaders of the mages and Templars she had gathered there to broker a peace. There had been no time to mourn, for the explosion had torn open the sky, painting the land green with the sickly light from the Fade. The Veil had been breached, and demons poured forth, ready to destroy the world they coveted.

 

Yet hope had come in the form of a single survivor. An elf, Dalish by her markings, had been recovered from the site of the Temple, unconscious and feverish, her left hand thrumming with magic that seemed to match that which had opened the Breach in the first place. The first impression was that _she_ was the culprit ... but Cullen's first impressions were always wrong.

 

He didn't have time to dwell on the prisoner, however. His small army faced their first test - the intermittent stream of demons that emerged from the Breach, and from the smaller rifts in the Fade that appeared as time went on. Three days passed, and his every waking moment was consumed with battle and field reports, with tales of death and injury, with strategy and plans. The constant strain was a welcome distraction from his own aches and fears, yet it did nothing for the morale of the men and women under his command.

 

On the fourth day, however, he found a fresh opportunity for his first impression to be born out. There had been no word from the forward camp until that morning; the prisoner was awake, and was coming to the Temple to attempt to close the Breach she may or may not have opened in the first place. The theory was sound, at any rate. But that meant they had to hold the Temple of Sacred Ashes at least a little longer; to face the smaller rift that had opened up on the approach to the Temple proper and keep the way clear. Unwilling to send his men into a battle that might never end, but without much choice in the matter, he took up his sword and shield, fighting shoulder to shoulder with them as yet another rift opened, disgorging shades and terrors and wraiths that seemed to have no goal but the ending of all life they encountered.

 

As more of his men fell to claws and poisons, he knew time was running out. Much longer, and the Temple would be lost entirely, and with it, their only hope of finding some way to close the sickly green Breach in the sky. Caught in yet another wave of demons, he was thrown back with his men, each of them gritting their teeth, determined to hold this land until the last man.

 

And then she appeared.

 

Howling some unknown battle cry, an elf leaped into the fray, wielding a staff with deadly accuracy. She broke the body of a terror that had almost finished the man to his right, standing over the soldier like some avenging goddess, and fire erupted from her fingertips, scorching into the shade Cullen himself was engaging.

 

 _A mage,_ he thought to himself with weary disgust. _It would be a_ mage _to the rescue, of all people._

 

Bolts twanged from somewhere behind them, pinning other horrors in place to allow the soldiers to gain the upper hand as yet more magic poured into the fray. The apostate elf - Solas, he believed was the name - was at their backs, casting barriers to protect those who still stood, healing those whose injuries made them vulnerable to further harm. A familiar voice caught his ears, and despite himself, he smiled grimly as he advanced behind his shield. The Lady Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast, had also arrived, it seemed, and judging by the fury with which she tore into the shades that now crowded around the elven woman, she had not come with any purpose beyond protecting the only survivor of the initial attack.

 

As the last demon fell, green lightning lanced from the elven woman's left hand - the hand that had been marked with magic by the Breach - arcing into the rift that hung above them. For a moment, it seemed to resist, and even Cullen winced at the pained note that rang from the elf as she focused herself on that connection. Then, with a blinding flash and painful crack of sound, the connection was severed. Where the rift had hung above them was now only clear air. The immediate danger had passed.

 

His concern was for his men, orders coming to his lips as easily as breath for them to fall back, to make use of this reprieve they had been granted for as long as they were able to. Turning to Cassandra, he acknowledged her with a terse nod.

 

"Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift?" A superfluous question, perhaps, but necessary. Closing any of those damned things was an achievement in his eyes. As the Lady Seeker nodded, he breathed out a sharp huff of breath. "Well done."

 

To his surprise, however, Cassandra shook her head. "Do not congratulate me, Commander," she told him, her voice weary. The anger that had been keeping her upright for the last three days seemed to have burned away, yet it had been replaced with ... was that hope he could see in her eyes? "This is the prisoner's doing."

 

He followed her gaze toward the unfamiliar elven woman, a frown painting his own face in the harsh light from the Breach itself. _Never trust your first impressions,_ he reminded himself, seeing only an elven mage - a _Dalish_ elf, no less, judging by the tattooed markings on her face - leaning heavily on her staff. She was small and battered, clearly not recovered from her ordeal in the Fade, and the expression on her face was not one that inspired confidence.

 

"Is it?" he heard himself question her, feeling keenly the weight of the lives he had lost over the days since her survival. "I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here."

 

Another time, he might have been amused at the way the implied blame in his words made her bristle, straightening her back as she returned his frown with a fierce glare of her own.

 

"You'll lose a lot more unless I get to the Breach," she shot back at him, clearly offended, making no attempt to disguise the lilt in her voice that proved she had been born Dalish, not simply joined them from among the city elves.

 

"Indeed."  That was all he would say further, yet that fierceness, that defiance ... _that_ was what he had wanted to see. That she had the strength to go on, despite her obvious pain and weariness. He turned to Cassandra, pointing her to the safest path left to enter the Temple, leaving the small group with the only hope he could.  "Maker watch over you, for all our sakes."

 

He did not even stay to watch them drop down onto the path he had indicated, his care for the men and women under his command drawing him back to them, to help tend to the wounded and see to their defence should any more demons try to take them from him.

 

Of all the good people who died on this mountaintop, for a mage to survive was almost an insult. Mages and Templars were the reason for the Conclave in first place; their misguided war was what had spurred Divine Justinia to call them here, to this sacred place, for peace talks. As a former Templar himself, Cullen knew the only hope of peace had been in the Divine's hands. And now she was dead, along with most of her Grand Clerics, all the Knights Vigilant, all the negotiators sent by the rebelling mages and Templars. All gone ... but for one Dalish elf who, by all accounts, shouldn't even have been there in the first place.

 

It all pointed to her guilt, every nuance of evidence he could gather to his - admittedly scattered - wits. Her mere presence, the explosion, the outcome, the Breach, the mark on her hand, her survival ... they were all compass points, screaming to the world that she was responsible for all this death and chaos. And yet ... here she was, doing battle by the sound of it, trying to close the very thing she would appear to have created. Would the perpetrator truly do that, throw themselves into deadly battle, just to throw suspicion elsewhere? He didn't know, and nor was he in any shape to puzzle it out now. He had duties to attend to, men and women who looked to him for guidance and orders needing him to be calm and in control. He could worry about his first impressions later, if there was the luxury of a later.

 

After all ... his first impressions were always wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction, and I have not even finished playing the game yet! The title is technically First in Dalish, gleaned from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen, which I lost myself in for a good three hours. Anywho, please enjoy; if you don't enjoy, please tell me why in constructive terms - I am new and scared, after all. Bioware owns it all; they are responsible for the demon plot bunnies in my head.


End file.
